John let himself into 221B, exhaling a grateful sigh as warmth enveloped him – God, he hoped Sherlock had remembered to leave the heat on. He'd noted the front windows of their flat were dark, so the detective was probably out somewhere. A case, perhaps? If so, it was a bit odd that he hadn't received any texts about it. He sighed again. It had been a long day at the clinic – too many sniffles, sore throats, coughs, annoyed looks upon being told "it's a virus and there's nothing I can give you for it". All the territory of the season to be jolly.
But tomorrow. Tomorrow he had a day off for their anniversary. And after the year they'd had, it was definitely cause for some celebration.
Trudging up the stairs, his right hand trailing on the banister beside him, each step was punctuated another plan for the evening – hot shower, fresh clothes, food, beer, telly, sleep…
He frowned when he noticed the small square of yellow paper affixed to the door. John shucked his gloves, shoved them into his coat pockets, and reached up to pull the sticky note from the door.
Come if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. Could be dangerous.
John stared at the note, then flipped it over. There was nothing written on the back and he gave it a small, confused frown. He remembered those instructions from when he'd first met Sherlock. Almost eight years ago now.
John opened the door, flicked on the light, and stopped.
The same small yellow squares were scattered around the flat, standing out against the familiar backdrop of their home. John frowned to himself again, then closed the door, glancing back to lock it.
There was another note on the door. He pulled it off and read:
In the lab at Bart's with your cane.
"What?" John asked himself. He reread it, feeling a smile stretch across his lips. Toeing off his shoes, he removed his coat, hung it up and rolled up his sleeves. He glanced around their living room – where to start? Was there was some kind of pattern? Maybe he was supposed to go clockwise or counter clockwise. Maybe it didn't matter. He crossed the room to their framed wedding picture where it had sat on an end table next to the couch ever since they'd received it. The note stuck to the top of the frame read:
Standing outside the restaurant in the cold, looking as though you'd made a terrible mistake (you hadn't).
John grinned. He remembered that day so vividly – it would be hard to forget. He'd asked Sherlock to marry him in the middle of a crowded restaurant and Sherlock had walked out of him. John had chased him down outside, convinced he'd ruined their entire relationship, but Sherlock had said yes. Later he'd learned that the detective had left to keep from throwing himself at John in full view of the other diners.
He glanced up and saw a note attached just above the couch where a smiley face had once been spray painted on the wall.
I'm never bored.
John chuckled; that wasn't true. Sherlock was bored less often since they'd become partners and then spouses but he still couldn't be kept entertained all the time. It was a nice thought anyway.
He turned toward the small bookshelf tucked against the wall to the left of the couch. There was a note attached to one of the books, the sticky part of the paper turned sideways so it could be pressed along the book's spine. He pulled it off and noted it was a book he'd received from his mother as a birthday present years ago. Apparently Sherlock remembered this as well, because the note read:
You grumbling about turning 40.
John grinned again. He thought back to his fortieth birthday, how he'd grumbled and moaned, and gave a rueful smile – in February he'd be forty-six.
How did I get this old? he asked himself with a wry chuckle. In his mind, he still thought of himself as thirty-seven. It wasn't really surprising to realize that was how old he'd been when he'd met Sherlock. Did Sherlock still see himself as thirty-two?
He crossed the living room to the desk that was still a disaster area despite the fact that Sherlock had no cases at the moment. There were a few files, a scatter of paper and pens, a magnet with a thimble and a paperclip stuck to it for some reason, Sherlock's wallet, a handful of coins and – a waving plastic cat. John heard his own startled laughter ring around the flat.
He managed to compose himself enough to pick up the lucky cat and take the note from the base.
I really don't think my wife would like it.
John kept chuckling, adding the note to the pile and picked the cat up. He crossed to the mantle and cleared a space for it, setting it beside the knife that was stuck in the mantelpiece – the one Sherlock had put there on their very first case together. The knife had a note stuck to the handle.
Can I be clever and an idiot at the same time?
John laughed out loud again, the sound warm in the flat.
"Oh yes you can," he murmured to himself.
It occurred to him to wonder for the first time where Sherlock was, if he was hiding somewhere in the flat. Well, he thought with a grin, If he's here, he'll just have to wait.
He turned to his chair, which had a note resting on the arm. His laptop was on the seat, a note attached to it as well. John read the one on his computer first:
Your passwords are still too easy.
He rolled his eyes and added that note to the pile then read the next one on the arm of the chair.
I believe this is yours.
John's expression was a little more serious this time. He remembered having the chair taken over by the McKinney case that past summer – it has been one of the things they'd fought about.
He looked back up and saw another note on the television screen.
There are only two doctors really worth listening to.
John laughed, shaking his head. He turned back to the mantelpiece, picking up the skull on impulse. There was a note stuck to the mantle beneath it. John took the paper and replaced the skull carefully.
Mrs. Hudson can't nick you, at least.
He grinned again and checked for more notes in the living room but none were immediately visible, so he went into the kitchen. He opened the cupboard where the tea was kept and, sure enough, there was a note on the small sugar tin. He pulled the tin down and set it on the counter and took the note from it but didn't read it right away. John studied the old tin – he didn't remember where or when he'd first got it. It had just been a tin in which he'd put sugar, not something he'd ever given much thought to. It was odd to think that so small a thing had started everything they had now. Because the sugar tin had been empty and they'd been out of sugar altogether, Sherlock had barged up to John's room, shirtless, and demanded John stop playing games with him. And he had – of course – noted the way John had looked at him.
He read the note.
It all started here.
John read it again, then smoothed his thumb over the words. He stared at it a moment longer, remembered trying to convince himself out of the ill-conceived crush on his flatmate, remembered telling himself to move on, remembered the detective sneaking into his room in the middle of the night, ostensibly because he couldn't sleep. They hadn't slept much that night at all.
He left the tin on the counter and moved to close the cupboard but noticed a jar with a note on the bottom shelf. John smiled at the honey container.
Confused as to why we were in Bristol.
He shook his head and closed the cupboard, turning to the fridge. Sherlock had dug up his dog tags from the back of his sock drawer and hung them over the souvenir magnet he'd bought in Edinburgh on their honeymoon. The note with them read:
Afghanistan or Iraq?
John rolled his eyes but slipped the dog tags on. He opened the fridge and found a note beside the milk.
No heads!
He shut the door again with a chuckle and went into the bedroom. It was no surprise that there were more notes in there and he wanted to change as well. He put his small stack of notes down on the bed and picked up a new one from his pillow.
Your tanned skin and blond hair against your pillow in our room at the villa.
John smiled – Sherlock had been particularly insistent that they go back to Frontignan on a more regular basis now so John could tan and let the sun bleach his hair. He didn't mind; he loved having a holiday at the villa and the lighter his hair was, the more it hid the grey he knew was coming in.
There was another note on the duvet.
Not nearly enough space to write everything I remember.
John's smile widened – he felt the same. There were countless hours of good memories in that bed. He wished Sherlock were there suddenly, so he could make a few new ones. He wanted to lay Sherlock down and kiss him everywhere for this, to let him know how much the gesture and the memories were appreciated.
He noticed their marriage certificate on the nightstand beside Sherlock's side of the bed and picked it up.
Signing your name on the certificate, trying not to smudge the ink with your hand.
John smiled again and set the certificate down, adding the note to the pile. He saw a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye and glanced up at the closet. There was a note on the door instructing him to look inside. It wasn't hard to identify what Sherlock wanted him to see; the garment bag with his kilt had been turned so it rested against the other bags that contained his and Sherlock's suits.
You have no idea how sexy you look in this.
John laughed. The first time Sherlock had seen him in it, the detective had pounced on him. That had been particularly memorable since they'd still been in the tailor's shop. Sherlock had forced John back into the dressing room, pushed him up against the wall, and snogged him mercilessly. By some miracle, John had managed to keep his husband from shagging him then and there. Sherlock had barely been able to keep his hands to himself during the cab ride home. As soon as they'd returned to the flat, he'd insisted John put on the kilt again, then had tumbled him onto the bed and shagged the hell out of him.
He pulled the hanger from the bar and shuffled through the rest of the clothes until he found the red jumper that Sherlock loved that went with the kilt. John changed and found his kilt hose – it was too chilly even in the heated flat to go without socks. He glanced around the room again but saw no more notes.
He headed toward the stairs to the spare bedroom – there were bound to be some notes up there, as it was the first place they'd been together. John stopped at the bottom of the stairs, a hint of yellow catching his eye. He saw another note on his umbrella, which was leaning against the wall next to the coat rack. He crouched down and plucked it off, then smiled.
Coming up from the tube station in the rain.
Oh yes, he remembered that. Sherlock standing in the pouring rain, his dark curls sodden and matted against his pale skin, his grey eyes frantically searching the crowd. He remembered the expression on the detective's face when he'd spotted the doctor, that look of utter relief like the entire universe had been righted again. When the electricity had failed in large swaths of the city, John had been trapped in the tube. Sherlock had asked Mycroft divert all the resources he could in order to have search and rescue teams locate John in the darkness underground. While other parts of London were still without power, he'd made Mycroft ensure the lights came back on for John.
He remembered the kiss in the rain, both of them soaking wet and cold, neither of them caring about the crowd pressed around them, the people who might be watching.
It had been then that John had decided to ask Sherlock to marry him.
John ran his left thumb over his wedding band. It had been the best decision of his life.
John pushed himself to his feet and clicked on the stairwell light. He was unsurprised to see another note on the door at the top of the stairs. He read it and grinned hugely.
I said dangerous and here you are.
There was something written on the back, so he flipped it over and his smile softened.
7 years and 32 days ago, I stood here, trying to decide if I should enter. I'm glad I did.
John pushed the door open.
Sherlock was lying on the bed in a small pool of warm yellow light from the lamp on the bedside table. He was reading but put the book aside immediately when John came in. The doctor caught the flash of lust that flared in Sherlock's eyes at the sight of him in the jumper and his kilt. John felt it mirrored in himself; Sherlock was wearing that purple silk shirt and jeans – John's favourite outfit on him.
"I'm aware that I am a day early," Sherlock said. "But I did want to surprise you."
John grinned.
"I was very surprised," he said, crossing the room and climbing onto the bed. Sherlock didn't move over for him and John didn't want him to. Instead, he straddled his husband on his hands and knees and leaned in to kiss him. Sherlock kissed back hard, sitting up a bit so he could run his hands up John's legs, up the bare skin of his thighs, under the kilt. He grimaced slightly and pulled away, giving John a disapproving glare for having kept his pants on. John just grinned and nipped at Sherlock's lip, enjoying the soft, sharp intake of breath.
"I'd like to say thank you," John murmured. "But I'm afraid the way in which I do so won't be that surprising."
"I'm certain I won't mind," Sherlock said.
"Mm, good," John said, dipping his head to work his way along the underside of Sherlock's jaw. The detective gave a small gasp and then a quiet moan, tilting his head back to give John better access. John sucked on the pulse point and felt one of Sherlock's hands weave quickly into his hair, trying to pin him there but he managed to move slowly upwards to suck on Sherlock's earlobe, tugging it gently between his teeth.
"I'm sure I can think of a surprise or two to throw in," John whispered. Sherlock shuddered at the sensation of John's breath against his skin, the words, or both.
"Oh, I encourage you to try, Doctor Watson," Sherlock murmured, turning his head for another kiss.
"You're on, Mister Holmes," he replied.
John stretched lazily, burying his face in his pillow with a contented smile. He snuggled under the duvet and let himself drift in that fuzzy state between asleep and awake. He could hear the hum of traffic from outside, dampened by the snow, and the sound of Sherlock moving around the flat. John took a deep breath; the smell of frying bacon invaded his nostrils and his smile widened. He heard footsteps heading toward the bedroom and then felt the shift on the mattress as Sherlock leaned against it, his lips brushing over John's ear to whisper:
"John, wake up."